Bad Blood: Lucius Dodge and the Redlands War (Lucius Dodge Westerns Book 2)

by J. Lee Butts

  Boz stormed though first. Rip went in next. I brought up the rear. Found ourselves in a poorly lit storage section about twelve feet deep. Space occupied the entire back portion of the saloon. About a third of the area was an office. We peeked inside, but everyone appeared to be out front showering the Matador with lead.

  A batwing door separated the storage room and office from the saloon's main hall. Noise level inside the building was damned near deafening. Pitt's shooters couldn't have heard us if we had chopped our way through the back door with double-bit axes.

  I stepped to the front of our parade and rushed past the batwing. Stopped at the end of the Fin and Feather's beautifully polished mahogany bar and waited for my friends. Once we got lined up, Boz gave the signal. The three of us cut loose at the same time.

  Shattered ceiling matter rained down on everyone for a dozen feet in front of us. Place got so quiet you could have heard a pin drop on a cotton boll. You'd a thought a funeral was in progress.

  Whining bullets from across the street still buzzed the air like angry bees as Boz yelled, "Throw down your weapons—or die this instant."

  Men closest to us dropped their pistols—right damned quick. Those farthest away looked confused behind their overturned tables, chairs, and gaming fixtures.

  One stupid jackass near the center of the room pointed his pistol at Rip. Thorn swung around and blew a double-fist-sized chunk of the poker table, near the man's head, to smithereens. Two or three pieces of shot caught the poor goober in the cheek. He went to rolling around on the floor. Screamed like a little girl.

  Rip's decisive action got the attention of everyone there. Pistols hit the floor like raindrops.

  Boz swung his shotgun around from man to man and roared, "Any more such treachery, and we'll kill the son of a bitch who tries it."

  Rip was so mad he made them jaybirds crawl outside. Whole bunch of them had their lips stuck out like buggy seats. All told, we hustled Pitt, his sons, and eight others into the fenced spot behind Leonard Skaggs's barbershop. Rip blocked the opening we'd kicked in the fence.

  As Boz and I headed out behind the Fin and Feather, for a spot on the far side of the jail, I heard Rip yell, "Any of you bastards move, and there won't be enough left of your sorry hide to tan and fashion into a coin purse."

  Huffed and puffed our way to the south corner of Iron Bluff's lockup. Gunfire from the Matador, which had been hotter than election day in a yellow jacket's nest, had dried up to nothing more than a random shot or two here and there.

  We stepped from behind our cover, and were about to slip across the jail's porch to the shelter afforded by the Fin and Feather's wall, when the sound of pounding and sawing inside the jail got our attention. Racket stopped us both dead in our tracks.

  Boz whispered, "What the hell you suppose that is, Lucius?"

  Cocked an ear that direction and said, "Sounds like someone hammering on a cell door. You reckon some of Bull's boys got inside and are trying to break him out?"

  Boz broke his shotgun open, checked the loads, and snapped it shut. He flicked a finger at my weapon, and I did the same. "You ready to storm our own jail?" he asked.

  Dropped a fresh round in a spent barrel of my blaster and said, "Don't see me sitting on my hands, do you? Lead the way, amigo."

  We stepped onto the jail's tiny veranda as quietly as we could. Boz pushed the door open. John Roman Hatch stood beside the open entry to the cell block. Gunman had his back turned toward us. We took him totally by surprise.

  Tingwell's most famous hired killer whirled our direction. Both his bone-handled pistols came up. Boz and I fired at the same time. God Almighty, but the spray of lead shot damn near blew him all to pieces, and painted the entire wall with gore.

  Soon as Hatch hit the floor in a busted heap, all glassy-eyed and spitting up his guts, we fired our second volley through the open cell block door. Men screamed in pain and called on God for mercy. I heard the heavy thumps of bodies hitting the floor.

  While a dense cloud of black powder smoke hung in the air, Boz and I slipped to either side of the open doorway, reloaded, and waited. Nothing else happened. No response. I'd figured on someone firing back.

  I yelled, "Come on out. Do it now or die."

  Right certain Hardy Tingwell was the one who yelled back, "Go to hell, Dodge, or come on in and get us." Bit of heated discussion from inside after his amazingly stupid pronouncement. On his fingers, Boz counted off at least three different voices. Didn't matter how many were inside anyway, because no one came out or offered to give up.

  Put my hat over the muzzle of my shotgun and eased the decoy around the jamb. Pistol fire blew it across the room and almost back into the street. We crossed our big boomers over one another and fired both barrels into the cell block, without even aiming. Our X-shaped coverage sprayed the entire area with buckshot. By God, got real quiet then.

  After about a minute of reloading and listening for any kind of movement, we stepped inside to an absolutely horrific scene. Hardy Tingwell and Icy Winters had managed to pry the cell door open enough to the point where Bull was stuck, half inside and half outside. Our blasting had peppered the hell out of the three of them.

  Winters took most of what we sent their way. He was an ugly lump of buzzard bait. But Hardy and Bull managed to survive. Looked to me as though Hardy cowered behind Winters when he saw our weapons pop around the corner, pointed in their general direction. Bull, as is the case with old people in general, simply got lucky. He might have suffered a dozen or so minor pieces of shot in his ancient hide, but none of them did any permanent damage.

  Boz found the keys and locked father and son in an undamaged cell. Then, we headed for the street again. Gunfire had completely ceased.

  Boz said, "I'd bet all of Tingwell's cowboys have been left leaderless and can't figure out why the Pitt bunch ain't firing back."

  "You're probably right, Boz. But how're we gonna get them to give up on this ruckus and come out of the Matador?"

  "Oh, hell, that 'uns easy. Watch this," he said, then took about six steps into the street.

  "Damnation, Boz," I hissed.

  He stopped and yelled, "You boys in the Matador, listen up. Icy Waters is dead. John Roman Hatch is dead. Casper Longstreet is dead. Your employers are behind bars. After some persuasion from the Texas Rangers, Pitt and his crew gave up and are under our guns at this very moment. It's way past time to put your weapons aside, fellers. This dance is over."

  Didn't take them long to come to a decision. Seven men filed out of the Matador, hands raised and looking like whipped dogs.

  Boz strolled over and gave Tingwell's boys a hot-mouthed lecture about how their lives were precious and how the whole damned bunch was right before pissing them away for an old man not worth the mud on their boots. He told them they should saddle up, turn their faces west, and get the hell out of Iron Bluff as quick as they could. I sincerely believe most of them took his advice.

  Few minutes after his first lecture, Boz hit Pitt and his bunch with pretty much the same harangue. Not sure his speech had the desired effect. Only about half of them lit out when given the chance. Thank God Alvin Clements decided to go with them. That only left Romulus and his idiot sons. We locked them up right next to Bull and Hardy Tingwell. Lot of angry mouthing between the clans for a day or so.

  Took a spell to bury all the dead folk and get those with wounds tended. Hell, I didn't care about anyone but Ruby. Boz and me found her a nice plot in the town cemetery on a bluff that overlooked the Angelina. Reminded me some of where Bull buried his daughter.

  After her hastily arranged funeral, which almost every decent citizen in town attended, Mr. Pinkus pulled me aside and said, "I've something you might be interested in."

  He led me to the back of his mortuary, then outside to a rough shed. In one corner stood a piece of statuary covered with dusty canvas. With a bit of overly dramatic flare, he snatched the rough covering away. Beneath, a marble angel kneeled and gazed lovingly t
oward heaven. A single huge tear trickled down its cheek. I damn near collapsed right on the spot.

  Pinkus said, "Used to have a feller named Osgood Stange living in these parts. Owned most of the land the Tingwells bought. Osgood sent for this piece to place on his daughter's last resting place. Girl died of pneumonia at the age of eight. Sad death. Unfortunately, her angel didn't arrive until about a week after Osgood passed on himself. He hadn't paid me, so she's been sitting here under this piece of canvas for nigh on five years."

  Finally regained my composure and said, "Put it at the head of Miss Black's grave. Carve her name on the base. Don't know the right dates, but I'll send them to you once we get back to Fort Worth." Started to walk away, stopped, and said, "Also, below the name carve, 'Her family's morning star.'"

  Pinkus gave me a feeble smile and said, "I knew you'd like it. Don't you want to know the price, Ranger Dodge?"

  As I turned and walked away, I said, "No. The money doesn't matter. Just do it."

  Boz kept our prisoners locked up for almost two weeks. One night after supper, we were sitting outside on the porch when he said, "Well, Lucius, I had hoped Judge Cooper would have made town by now. Can't keep these men locked up much longer. All the killings they're connected to seem mutual 'cept Ruby's. Been thinkin' 'bout settin' all of 'em loose, except Bull."

  "Even Hardy? Hell, he shot Rip and tried to kill me."

  "I know, but you got him back pretty good. Doc Adamson spent almost four hours pickin' out all the lead we put in his sorry ass. Boy might not ever walk again. Figure you punished him for his sins. Don't you?"

  "Yeah, I suppose." Leaned my chair against the wall and said, "Then what?"

  He thought my question over, then said, "Think I'll have Rip take Bull to the law over in Shelbyville. That way Judge Cooper should be able to get him before the court for trial a lot quicker. But you know, could be possible Bull might try to escape on the way. Rip may even have to kill the old bastard. I think such a prospect is pretty much a certainty. What do you think, Lucius?"

  "Long as he's dead, I don't give a hoot in Hell how it happens."

  Boz smiled. "Good. I'll put Rip on the road tomorrow. We won't tell anyone. Should give him plenty of time to get as far away as he can, before anyone finds out Bull's done went and bit the dirt. We'll rum the rest of 'em out a day or so later. Then, we can head for Fort Worth. How's that sound?"

  Well, by God, it sounded just fine. Worked out exactly the way Boz planned too. Heard later, when news of Bull Tingwell's unfortunate departure from this earth got back to Iron Bluff, the remaining members of his family packed up and disappeared like thieves in the night. Most folks around town considered their departure good riddance. The Pitt clan threw a family get-together. Danced till the sun came up.

  Six months later, Romulus bought all the property the Tingwells vacated for about a nickel on the dollar. Few weeks after getting what he'd always wanted, the elder Pitt went out for a ride. On his way past the former Tingwell manor house, a pack of wild dogs attacked him, brought his horse down, and ripped the man to pieces. Least that's the way the story got told.

  Me and Boz headed back to Fort Worth. Did a swing through Lone Pine and picked up Orvis Tate. He damn near drove us both crazy before we turned him over to the Tarrant County sheriff.

  Worst morning of my young life was when we reported the sad news about Ruby's unfortunate death to Captain Culpepper. Only time in my memory I saw the cap'n openly weep. We offered to accompany him when he delivered the news to her family. He refused, and made the trip alone.

  EPILOGUE

  AN OVERABUNDANCE OF years have passed since what became widely known as the Tingwell-Pitt War. So many years, in fact, most folks completely forgot it ever happened. I suppose just about everyone connected with the event is dead now, with the exception of me.

  Rangered for nigh on four decades, before I finally had to hang up my guns. Every other year or so, I'd make a special swing through East Texas. Stop for a visit at Ruby's final resting place. Funny thing. Graveyard suffered from serious neglect as time passed, but Ruby's was the only site where flowers flourished—and weeds never grew. Last time I went by, her weeping angel looked exactly the way it did the day Pinkus set the statue in place.

  Used to occasionally receive a missive from Cloud Quigley's daughter. Old ink-slinger passed a few years after all the shouting, shooting, and dying. By then, Iron Bluff had pretty much fallen apart, dried up, and faded away. As I understand, there's nothing left these days but windblown nothingness.

  In one of her letters the Quigley girl, think her name was Lydia, told as how she found an unpublished story Cloud wrote about me, Boz, and the war. Said she remembered seeing me in Iron Bluff when she was but a nubbin. Thought I was the most dashing figure of a man who ever donned a palm-leaf sombrero and Mexican spurs. Must have been real easy to impress kids back then, I suppose. Couldn't rightly remember little Lydia, though. And we never did manage a meeting. I've wished a thousand times I could bring her to mind. She just ain't with me these days, if she ever was.

  But every so often something, or someone, like that red-haired, blue-eyed beauty coming out of Cooley Churchpew's place, brings unexpectedly fond recollections of Ruby Black to the front of my rapidly fossilizing brain. And if the moon's right, and I can get my head situated on the pillow at just the perfect angle, dreams have the power to bring her to me for a brief visit.

  My visions of Ruby are consistently the same. I'm stretched out on a blanket, laid in the grass along the banks of the Angelina. Blooming wildflowers fill the lazy breezes with fragrant perfume. A soft, cool hand caresses my brow. My mind fights to force contrary eyes open. Her lips touch mine. As she draws away, I wonder at such astonishing beauty. Unlike me, she's never aged. Forever twenty years old. And when I come fully awake, her touch lingers on my lips and the places where her hand rested on my arm are still warm.

  One time I fell asleep in my favorite chair out on the back porch. I'd had a few dippers of fine sippin' whiskey that night. Well, maybe more than a few. Kind of snapped awake about three in the morning. Swear 'fore Jesus, Ruby stood over the chair. Could feel her fingers on the back of my neck.

  Sweet girl smiled and said, "Won't be long now. We'll be together again, Lucius. I'm waiting."

  Then, she vanished. Like I'd snapped my fingers and caused her to disappear. Strange, ain't it? I rarely give a second's worth of thought to the gunfights, death, or bad blood of Iron Bluff. But Ruby, oh, my friends, there's a whole different story. I admit to being quite unprepared for the mark she left on my heart. Surprise of my life, for while all else fades, she is forever with me.

  Guess I'll hold up on my scribbling for a spell. Gonna stroll down to Cooley's. He's got a damned fine pool table in back of his place. Grab me an RC Cola from his icebox, drag up a cane-bottomed chair, and watch Sulphur River's young fellers shoot a game or two of nine ball. That fiery-haired little gal could stop in again, you know. I might even offer to buy her a bottle of pop. Damned fine way to spend an afternoon, don't you think?